Epitaph
by Yuki Scorpio
Summary: [COMPLETE][Schwarz] Focused on Schuldich and Crawford, a few years after Schwarz disbanded.
1. Part 1

[Epitaph]

part one

A different country, a different nation.

Black cabs, double-decker buses and European cars move sluggishly, filling up the wide street graced with middle-aged architecture on both sides - buildings of marble, stones and concrete. Coffee and cake shops, high street stores and hotels have invaded these structures on the ground level, creating an odd mixture of the new and old.

This is Regent Street, Central London.

This capital has always given him a funny feeling. It seems strangely similar to his homeland yet nothing quite like it. The Londoners take their time to do things, they don't move with the contained violence he sees in the Americans and they surely look like they have less worries in the world than the Americans. The Londoners are too busy in work and having fun to give much of a care to a drop in the Doles Index or the recent technology advancements. They pick up a copy of _The Times_ or _Daily Telegraph_, skim through it but not much of the newspaper will stay in their minds for more than a day or so. Completely unlike the people in New York or Washington City.

Today, he has let himself follow the pace of the Londoners and relax. This made him realise one thing: efficiency and relaxation are, more often than not, inversely proportional to each other - as one goes up, the other goes down. He doesn't really care, because he is working for no one and he can spend his time how he wants.

He finishes the cheesecake, leaves a five-pound note on the table and steps out of the warm café, sticking his hands into pockets as the rush of still chilly March winds hit him. He walks aimlessly down the quieter side of the street, where the coffee shops and Scottish wool shops concentrate instead of the crowded side where the toy, gift and fashion stores are. Then he spots a familiar figure across the street, just coming out of _Hamleys_, the enormous multi-stories toy store.

* * *

He fishes out a couple of notes from his wallet, hands it over the counter and slips the change down the charity collection box. Not because he wants to do good, but he likes the sound of the coins hitting the bottom of the plastic box: A small dull thud, like the sound of a bullet entering flesh. He smiles bitterly when he notices that the collection goes to a charity that helps the deaf children. Sometimes he wishes he is deaf.

He still hasn't found him, and he begins to doubt that his wires gave him true information. Or perhaps he is a step behind. Again. He should have expected it. Carrying his new 3D jigsaw puzzles of the Big Ben, he idly wonders how large his collection of souvenirs has grown since the search had begun.

He decides he will hop onto a tour bus and take a look around this capital like a tourist. Perhaps by doing this he can understand why that man had chosen to come here, and perhaps then he can be a step closer to him. Look at the Houses of Parliament, the Tower of London, the Madame Tussauds. Maybe he will step on the same soil that man has once stepped on, breathe the same air that man had breathed. He has been living - no, surviving - on these valueless, substance-less somethings that he knows mean nothing but are the only things that mean something to him.

It isn't making sense again, this wrecked brain. He shakes his head, red mane tumbling wildly then settling to frame his thinning face once more.

---What if he finds him?---

The answer to this question is not known.

---Why is he looking for him?---

'That's because...' He hisses as he exits the toy store, wrapping the scarf around his neck again. 'In the beginning, you were the one who said "come with me". Bastard.'

* * *

The figure across the street looks up and sees him. Then he is a blur of movements, disappearing behind a red double-decker, swivelling around the traffic like mercury and stopping in front of him. It has taken him five point five seven seconds to cross the four-lane road down the middle of Regent Street.

'This is a small world, Crawford.' The glasses are worn properly instead of being on his flame-coloured hair. The English has much improved since Crawford last heard it.

It had been some three, four years since he last set eyes on this man, and he still looks the same, except that the glint in his eyes has gone a little duller, and now he looks polished, not only in appearance but inside the person as well. A removal of juvenility that can only be caused by experience, Crawford notes. Experience is the only thing that makes people grow, provided they learn from it.

He wonders what caused this change. He also wonders how he has already noticed this, in a matter of seconds.

On the sidewalk, the flow of the crowd parts like the Dead Sea where the two men are standing. For a moment, Crawford is lost for words. Without that aura of childlike wickedness, the person before him is so familiar yet a total stranger to him. Something is tugging at his nerves, warning him that this young man has returned to the animal he was when they first met.

This young man had been a teenager then. He was sitting in the corner of his prison, streaks of dirty long hair falling over his eyes that displayed a raw desire to destruction, revenge and beneath that, a longing to something. When this youth turned from staring at the ceiling to look at him, Crawford felt the gaze, intriguingly green in the darkness, pierce through and he had fought hard not to step back in awe and, he had to admit, fright.

He expected questions and resistance from the youth, but nothing was asked. The young man stood up and followed him until Schwarz was no more, hiding the beast inside him and instead, turned into one smooth-talking bastard who used more of his smile than his psychic ability to manipulate.

Now, looking at this man years later, Crawford sees that same certain longing has possessed this person once again. He does not understand this longing. He doesn't think he should care.

After a while, he realises he should say something. He can't just stand and stare like this.

'What are you doing here, Schuldich?'

* * *

Because he heard rumours that Brad Crawford was seen in London.  
Because he is looking for him.  
Because he doesn't know what else to do with himself after the four of them went their separate ways.  
Because Crawford told him to go with him since his new life had begun.  
Because a puppet is lifeless without its puppeteer.  
Because -

'Farfie wanted to see Ireland again, and you know he doesn't like planes, so I kind of escorted him there then came down here for shopping.' Schuldich says in English. His tone is calm and smooth, even though the sharp edges in Crawford's question has already nicked him. He dismisses this feeling like he would to a paper cut. He hasn't expected any heartbreaking reunion with them asking what each other what they had been doing for the past few years. He doesn't know what to expect.

The American lifts one eyebrow, looking slightly more interested than before. 'You two kept in contact?'

Schuldich's steps fall into pace with Crawford's. He is aware that they are drawing attention again, like they did in the old times. 'Just phonecalls, really. Didn't see him again 'till last week.'

'You're lying.' The taller man says, without thinking.

'Not about the phonecalls.' Schuldich snickers. Crawford still knows him too well. But he also knows Crawford better than that man may think. 'Farfie is part of the reason. But you wouldn't be interested in my true reason of coming here anyway, would you.'

He wishes Crawford will surprise him and say he would. Silence is the answer.

So Schuldich returns the silence. Crawford asks questions but never tells anyone anything; Schuldich knows this for a fact. In a way, nothing has changed.

The silence stretches between them.

Like a child facing his teacher, Schuldich fumbles with words, searching for something to say. What can he tell Brad Crawford? Is there anything that the man would be interested in that Schuldich has to offer?

No.

That was why they parted, wasn't it? If Schuldich had something Crawford wanted, then he wouldn't have left him behind. Simple logic, so simple, so true that even Schuldich cannot deny, no matter how much he wants to.

However, he will not accept it, even if he cannot deny it. Because without someone to follow, Schuldich is nothing more than a pretty puppet in the shop window. People come and go, saying 'oh look, what a beautiful thing', but that's all he is. A beautiful creature. Finally, a man claims him to be his own, promising him a new life. That man is his life.

Without this man, without someone to tuck at the strings, a puppet is just a slump of nothing.

* * *

'Hey, Crawford, want to go to dinner? My treat.'

With a piece of cheesecake still in his stomach, Crawford does not particularly fancy meals right now. But, is that disappointment that just flashed on Schuldich's features? Forever a child, isn't he. Schuldich is someone who needs companionship; he craves and works for it. Crawford sighs and changes his mind.

They jump on a bus that takes them back down the street, then walk their way to a Japanese sushi bar near Covent Garden. Nothing classy, typically Schuldich. The younger man is looking excited once more, just like when they used to go on their assignments, and they order some udon before starting to choose the sushi.

'So how long are you staying here for, and where're you going next?' Schuldich asks before slurping in the thick white rice noodles, pulling off his glasses at the same time so that they don't get steamed up. He doesn't really need them anyway.

Crawford doesn't quite want to tell. He doesn't like anybody knowing where he is. For the same reason, he disliked mobile phones before such things called 'caller ID' were invented, because before that, he could not choose whether to pick up a call or not. Everybody could find him anywhere, as if he was a dog on a leash.

But Schuldich has that trademark smile on his face now, and Crawford doesn't want to cause any frowning or tense atmosphere. When Schuldich goes cold, the power in his eyes is deadly. Even the smile takes on a hard edge. Crawford is by no means afraid of that, he just isn't fond of seeing it because it is too much like himself.

'I haven't got any plans. Maybe down to Berlin or Madrid.'

That is already telling too much, but never mind, it's only Schuldich. Schuldich is harmless, Crawford simply loathe being stared at, which is the price to pay for being with the younger man. Schuldich is an attention seeker, but he is not. He'd much rather live without anyone gaping at him, without the pressure, without being judged. He is an efficient man, but by no means is he going to put up with any expectations unless he chooses to. He had enough of that already.

No, Schuldich doesn't judge him, Crawford knows that. Pretty much everyone else does, though, especially when the two of them are together. It is easy to say that he doesn't care about anybody's views, but in reality, who doesn't?

If Schuldich doesn't bring along all that staring, Crawford thinks he can actually like the German.

* * *

Men dressed casually or in suits and women mostly wearing too little clothes for this temperature, beer cans, wine and spirit bottles fill the street. It is Friday night. Schuldich smiles. Even though the voices sometimes drown him, he likes the crowds. He knows Crawford doesn't.

'Where're you staying?' The American asks as a hint that he is going to leave.

Schuldich finds himself shrugging to that question, and answering honestly, 'Don't know yet.'

'Why?'

'It was like a last minute decision to come here, so I didn't have time to arrange anything... Can you accommodate me?'

Crawford half smiles and turns away. A 'no', that is.

An exaggerated sigh. 'Heartless man.'

With that, Schuldich turns and leaves. He cannot keep Crawford with him, the American like no ties that hold him back. But now that he has found him, he will tie himself to Crawford and follow him, the way his life was set out to be.

'See ya, Crawford.'

* * *

Crawford pushes his way down the stairs of Leicester Square Underground station. _95.8 Capital FM_ greets him in bright red and blue, but like most Londoners, he is too used to that advertisement to pay attention to it. Shoulders shove against shoulders, arms against arms. He wants to be away from here as quickly as possible. London is no longer attractive to him, it is merely another city where its people live in false contentment. His flight to Berlin will be in four days' time.

Once inside the ticket gates and on the escalator, he pulls out some mint chocolate and breaks a little piece for himself. A hand reaches from over his right shoulder and takes the last of the chocolate away.

'Learn the art of sharing.' A voice speaks in an amused tone. The speaker consumes his prize, filling his breath with minty sweetness.

'Learn to ask before you take anything.' Crawford replies bitterly, half turning to shoot Schuldich a look.

'Since when,' The German steps off the escalator after Crawford. 'Have we asked anyone before taking their lives?'

Schuldich shrugs off his coat, tempted the wrap it around Crawford's head to get a better, more obvious reaction from the man than just a bitter or sarcastic reply. Crawford is fun when he goes mad. But maybe Schuldich is the only person to think so. People never mess with Brad Crawford, but Schuldich is no ordinary person. He is Brad Crawford's disciple.

'I want you to leave me alone.'

This is one of the only orders Schuldich does not listen to from Crawford.

'Ah, but I don't - '

_Bloody hell, why did she do that?_

_A couple of lines will do. Just get the money from mom's closet. She'll never know._

' - quite want to.'

_Bastard! You know I love you!_

_They're all lying. I'm not sick. They're the ones who need to see the doctor._

Schuldich mutters a curse in German and bites down on his lip. He forgot how the voices attack him whenever he is with the American. The hand holding the coat clenches into a tight fist as he fights off the hummings in the back of his head. He needs a physical contact with Crawford for the silence to return, but Crawford is already annoyed enough with him. Chemically treated hair falls to hide his pained expression when he bows his head, as if that will make the voices fade.

He jerks his head up when a hand grips his arm and suddenly there is silence again. Brad Crawford lets him go and rolls his eyes. 'Masochist.'

A smile creeps onto Schuldich's lips. No matter what he says, Crawford is still the man he knew since Schwarz. Perhaps he is a masochist to still stick around this man when he brings along all this noises in his head, but Schuldich will learn to like this too, if this is the price to pay for following Crawford.

Passengers stream beside them when the train stops at platform 2.

'For one last time, stop following me.'

'You don't hate me that much.'

'Quit it, Schuldich.'

People from the platform begin filling up the train.

'I thought you've always wanted to understand me and such.'

'I believe that was when we had to work together.'

'You stung me, you know?' Dramatically Schuldich places a palm over his heart and bows his head again. 'You're so harsh to moi.' He says in a casual tone that can fool all but post-Schwarz members.

Sighing, Crawford pulls off his glasses and wipes them on his shirt. His long-sightedness prevents him from seeing Schuldich's reactions to his words, and he knows it's better this way. It always makes him feel somewhat guilty to hurt Schuldich like this, perhaps because he did make Schuldich his own responsibility in the first place. Leaving a liability behind is not a Brad Crawford thing to do, but neither is having someone to follow him. Crawford will choose to be a lone wolf over being a leader.

'The past is the past. We're not a team now, get used to it.'

'Four years.' Schuldich bites his lower lip. Over 1500 days of searching, but Brad Crawford will never know that. 'And you haven't changed your mind a bit?'

'Don't think I ever will.' Crawford steps into the train, feeling relieved as the doors close. He doesn't need to live with this guilt - he has never felt guilty about anything, and he intends to stay that way. If this means he has to run away like a coward...

He turns his back to the windows as the train start off and accelerates.

Standing on platform 2 of Leicester Square underground station, Schuldich watches as the train disappears into the utter darkness of the tunnel.

* * *

Brad Crawford puts down the receiver and ticks off the tasks in his daily planner. Not wishing to leave anything to chances, he has cancelled all his flights for the next few days after foreseeing an air accident. He has no plans to die as of yet, even though he hasn't found anything to live for. One day he'll find it, and before that, death is out of the picture.

It does not surprise him when he turns around to see Schuldich outside the phonebox, tapping his foot.

'Crawford, you're very bad.' Schuldich reaches into the box and pulls out one of the stuck-on advertisement cards when the American walks out. 'You should know better than to call up these services.'

Crawford pays no attention when Schuldich waves the card with a nude woman and a phone number on it in front of him.

'You'll catch STDs, you know?' Schuldich smiles and throws the card away, picking up his steps easily beside Crawford.

'Even that will be none of your business.'

'It will, because if you die, then I can't bug you.'

'Death sounds like a good option now.' The harshness in his voice surprises Crawford himself. The air is suddenly dense and he feels as though he cannot breathe when slowly Schuldich takes a wider stride to step in front of him, dark green eyes narrowing into slits.

Before Schuldich has said anything, Crawford takes a step back. This is the same Schuldich he once met in the concentration camp in Hamburg, the brutal, wounded animal. This is a man he doesn't understand or know how to deal with.

But when Schuldich opens his mouth to speak, his voice is not filled with anger, only hurt. 'What have I done wrong, Crawford?'

To this, Brad Crawford cannot answer. The attention he attracts? The knowledge that he has changed this young man's life? The devotion he does not know how to handle?

None of it is Schuldich's fault.

Suddenly Crawford becomes very aware that he may be a more flawed person than he thought he was. Perhaps he doesn't like attention because he doesn't want anyone to see his imperfections. Perhaps he doesn't want to acknowledge his effects on Schuldich because he doesn't know if he has ruined Schuldich's life or not. Perhaps he doesn't know how to handle devotion because he thinks he isn't worth it.

'Give me one reason why you hate me so much.'

For the first time in his life, Crawford struggles to find the right words to say. He turns away from Schuldich's demanding stare, wishing this conversation never started.

Feeling defeated, he opens his lips to apologise.

But when he turns around again, Schuldich has gone. 

[to be continued]


	2. Part 2

[Epitaph]

part two

Farfarello looks up at the cross on the top of God's House. His right arm twitches in excitement as the sound of hymns filter through the church doors to reach his ears. How should he destroy this gathering? Fire? Acids? Or kill God's servants one by one with his hands?

'Farfie, you're still twisted.'

'You aren't any better.' Hearing the familiar voice, Farfarello turns his head around as much as possible without moving his body. An old habit from wearing a restricting jacket for too long. 'What wind blows you here?'

Schuldich blinks at the accent - he has never heard Farfarello speak in English. Even on the phone, they had always used German or Japanese. 'For a few pints of _Guinness_ and St. Patrick's Day, I guess.'

A crooked smile finds its way onto the Irishman's lips, his right arm once again going into spasms. 'I'll celebrate that day in this church.'

'Whatever.' Schuldich walks up and wraps an arm around Farfarello's shoulders. 'Why don't you show me your dwelling, I'm tired.'

Farfarello's home is surprisingly orderly, even with the unusual objects all over the place. The collection of nameless weapons has grown over the last four years, but the wardrobe is more or less the same. Schuldich scratches his back and walks around with a bitter smile on his lips whilst his friend looks for extra bedding for him. Only a few years ago, Schuldich was the one to give shelter to Farfarello. Now he just turns up and expects his friend to return the favour.

Schuldich sags his shoulders when he finds Farfarello wandering to the window, leaving the blankets half pulled out of the cupboard. The Irishman is watching the passing birds with interest, muttering something with his faint Irish accent to the flying creatures. He hasn't changed one bit.

Well, neither has Crawford, or Schuldich himself.

Farfarello has half his body leaned out of the window by the time Schuldich gets out his blankets and pillows. 'Farfie, get back here. You jump, I jump.'

'Have you found Brad Crawford yet?' Farfarello doesn't seem to have heard what his friend just said. One of his hands goes from holding onto the window frame to reaching out for the pigeons.

'Three weeks ago.'

'What're you doing here?' Farfarello climbs back into his house, with several long feathers in a clenched fist. 'To join me on St. Pat's Day, or a pint of _Guinness_?'

'Beers are no good if they aren't German.'

Schuldich wonders where the feathers come from since pigeons have only very short, fur-like feathers, but decides not to ask. He buries himself under the covers he laid out on the floor.

Getting into his bed, Farfarello dangles his upper body over the edge to stare at Schuldich with one wide golden eye. With closely cropped hair, an eyepatch, scars and lower lip that seems to hang down slightly, Schuldich is for once grateful for being a telepath - at this moment, Farfarello's looks are at their unnerving best, but Schuldich knows the man is just curious and will not do anything.

'What're you doing here?'

'I'm glad you don't drool anymore, otherwise I'll be drenched by now.'

'What're you doing here?'

Schuldich flinches at the same question asked the third time. He says nothing.

'You looked around for four years and you run before the fourth week.'

'Oh joy, you don't need to point that out to me.'

Farfarello looks down at him in silence. After half a minute of stillness, Schuldich cannot stand it anymore. 'All right, what the hell do you want?' He brings an arm up to cover his eyes. 'Toss me a thought or say something!'

In slow motion, Farfarello worms to the other side of his bed and reaches for the telephone. Schuldich cannot see his friend from where he is, but he can hear him booking a flight for going down to London tomorrow. An expensive one, too.

'Get out of my house tomorrow.' White hair appears, then Farfarello's eye as he peers over the mattress again. 'Planes don't wait.'

Schuldich stares at the single yellow eye, his jaws falling open. 'You're sending me back to London.'

'Don't hide here again until you spend another four years prying through Brad Crawford. What's three weeks compared to the time you already spent?'

The German blinks up in stunned silence. The words click, and he immediately wants to kick himself for giving up so soon. What has he been thinking?

'Farfie, I'm getting worried. You're talking too much sense now.'

'And you're a complete nut.'

* * *

Back in _The Ritz_, Crawford picks up a copy of _Evening Standard_ that is waiting for him in his room. The headline says something about an IRA air-bombing, but a light knock on the door distracts him before he reads the details.

He opens his door to find a red-haired German leaning against the wall outside.

'How did you find me?'

Schuldich pushes himself off the wall, tossing his hair away from his face and smiling. 'With an adequate amount of mind reading. What're you doing?'

'Nothing much.' Crawford holds the door open. 'Come in.'

Schuldich's eyes grow wide. Is this a sudden change of attitude, or has Crawford decided to let him in and then make him feel even worse than last time? No, Crawford is not that kind of person. With a big smile, Schuldich enters the room.

Crawford pours two glasses of mineral water and gives one to his friend.

Schuldich removes the newspaper from the windowsill and sits down, thinking that he should thank Farfarello.

'So when are you going to Berlin?'

'I cancelled my flight. Might get one for Friday instead.' Crawford pauses, then adds, 'Will you be my guide?'

Brad Crawford does not know if he is trying to make up for his wrongs. Maybe he does enjoy the German's company. He just hopes Schuldich is not still angry at him from two days ago.

Schuldich decides he definitely has to thank Farfarello for making the decision for him.

'Sure. Hey, do you know I've got a space there?'

'Space?'

'As in space for a gravestone.' Schuldich sets down his glass of water and turns back from looking out to study Crawford's reaction. 'I reserved a space there for fun. Pretty cool, huh?'

'Schuldich'. He always knew the name was chosen with contempt - who would call their child a name similar to 'guilty' in their language? The stone will be without the family name, he is just Schuldich now, he belongs to no one except Crawford. He is a man born in guilt, born with guilt, born guilty. The one always left unchosen, excluded.

But it no longer matters, because Brad Crawford has chosen him out of all the paranormals in the camp. He is the chosen one.

'Reserve a space... for fun?'

'Figured that I'll choose a nice spot so that my friends will actually visit me. If I end up being in some remote nowhere, who will bother coming to visit? Anyway, you better get me a ticket for Berlin.'

'Okay.'

Schuldich's glass of mineral water remains untouched when he leaves the room.

* * *

Hyde Park, the biggest public park in the world. Sellers of art, some good, some poor, station outside every day to sell anything from pop art to oil paintings to replicas of famous artwork. During the day, this area is swamped by tourists. At night, after the owners pack up their stalls, the park is a silent city of greenery lit up by a series of white street lamps.

The two of them enter the park from the Bayswater entrance. It is a walk Schuldich insisted on having which has stretched for too long and they will be leaving for Berlin tomorrow - later today, technically speaking.

'This reminds me of the millennium celebration.' Schuldich looks up thoughtfully at the street lamps, remembering the time when him and Crawford shared their small celebration together in the middle of nowhere. Several years has passed since then, they're in a different country, but he is happier than he has ever been.

Crawford looks at his companion. There is something strange about Schuldich that the American cannot name, ever since his appearance at _The Ritz_. Quietly, but without an awkward silence, they walk down the wide central path towards South Kensington, stopping just behind the great Albert Memorial.

Crawford shields his eyes from the bright light that shines from Albert Hall across the road onto the statue.

'Wow, this is cool.' Schuldich looks up at the light with narrowed eyes, amazed by the way it illuminates the gold-guilded prince consort of Queen Victoria. The sheer size of it is enough to make him want to climb on top and sit on Albert's head.

'Crawford, you look like James Bond.' He points at the ground, snickering.

Brad Crawford turns around to see his shadow, a ten feet long silhouette of himself, stretching across the ground, a perfect imitation of James Bond from the _007_ movies.

It is then he notices what is so odd about the German.

Schuldich has no shadow.

* * *

Crawford has kept his questions to himself. Schuldich had no shadow? Flopping onto his bed, he takes off his glasses and presses two fingers on the bridge of his nose. It must have been an hallucination.

It isn't until after a long while he hears the insistent ringing of his mobile phone. He pulls out the phone from his coat, wondering who would call him. This is a secure line with a number known by no one - even Schuldich didn't know it. It only exists for him to make private calls.

'I was thinking that you'll never pick up the phone!'

'... Nagi?' A voice Crawford has not heard for more than four years. 'How did you - '

'I set up this line for you, remember?' Nagi sighs at the rather dumb question. 'Of course I have a way to get into it.'

The American sits up on the edge of his bed and wishes he didn't ask such a stupid question. 'What is it?'

Nagi Naoe seems to hesitate over the other end of the phone connection. A few seconds pass before he speaks again. 'Did you read the newspaper a couple of days ago?'

'What about it?'

'Read about how the IRA planted a bomb on a plane from Ireland to London that was supposed to blow off at Gatwick Airport, but gone off during the flight instead?'

'No survivors, yes I know.' At the mention of Ireland, Brad Crawford immediately thinks this may be related to the one-eyed ex-Schwarz member. 'Has Farfarello got involved?'

The Japanese young man takes a deep breath. 'No. Schuldich did.'

'... Him?'

'Schuldich was on the plane.'

[to be continued]

< Prev 1. Part 12. Part 23. Part 3 Next >

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	3. Part 3

[Epitaph]

part three

Heathrow Airport, Terminal 2.

He studies the ticket in his hand. Schuldich did tell him to get another ticket, but he hasn't come to collect it.

Brad Crawford takes out the article he ripped from the newspaper and reads it again. The aeroplane has been bombed mid-journey and crashed into the channel of water between England and Wales. The search for remains of the plane and bodies continues. A few corpses have been fished out and identified by families, but it is believed that not all of the passengers will be found. No one could have survived the explosion as well as the crash. Crawford also triple-checked with the airline, and Schuldich definitely did get on that plane.

He cannot understand what is happening - hadn't he talked to Schuldich after the incident got on the newspapers?

Or was that Schuldich he met just the creation of his overflowing guilt, an illusion to console himself for driving the devoted, faultless man away?

Brad Crawford never imagined his first destination in Berlin will be a graveyard.

He browses the rolls upon rolls of white stones on lush green grass, some recently visited and still with fresh flowers, and absently ponders if he should have brought something for his friend. But he has never bought flowers in his life. He doesn't even know how much a bouquet costs or even what the right flowers are for an occasion like this.

Is Schuldich dead? Crawford saw him just last night. But Schuldich is dead. He has to be. Even with his gift of speed, Schuldich could not have escaped, being confined to a cabin in mid-air. The German is as dead as every corpse that is lying under the stones here.

Crawford knows he is lacking the grieve one should feel in a graveyard. He can blame it on his own nature and on Schwarz for taking away this weakness of heart, but he knows, in truth, it is because he cannot bring himself to believe Schuldich has completely gone.

Eventually he finds Nagi Naoe and Farfarello standing before one of the stones. Nagi has grown over the years, he is almost as tall as Farfarello now. He is putting down some white flowers which Crawford does not know the name of, and the two of them looks at the stone which says simply 'Schuldich', without other words or even a date.

'Oh Crawford, you've made it.' Nagi smiles gently when he sees his old-time leader. 'Schuldich reserved the most beautiful spot in the graveyard.'

'So that he will get visited more often.' Farfarello sounds emotionless. 'I can feel him here.'

'So can I.'

Wordlessly, as if he has not heard the conversation between the two, Crawford pulls out a packet of mint chocolate from his coat pocket and leaves it at the foot of the stone, besides the flowers.

A familiar laughter makes him look up again.

Schuldich is sitting on his own gravestone, body crouching forward slightly, legs swinging in the air with a childlike smile on his face.

'For once, after all these years, you're the one to come looking for me.'

Stunned and speechless, Crawford watches as Schuldich jumps off the stone and picks up the chocolate. 'Shame, I can't eat it anymore.'

Behind him, Nagi suddenly yelps. 'No I didn't move that, I'm not using my powers!'

Crawford half turns to see Nagi and Farfarello looking at the chocolate in puzzlement.

'Sorry for not turning up for the flight, the two of them got here this morning and I thought I should come to see them first.' Schuldich says.

'... I don't get it.' Shaking his head, Brad Crawford takes the mint chocolate back from Schuldich and pockets it. He can feel Nagi and Farfarello staring at him, wondering what is going on. Can't they see Schuldich, or is all this his own imagination? 'You're dead.'

'You're the only one with the gift of sight, Crawford.'

Suddenly, it all makes sense to him.

'Crawford.' Farfarello puts a cold hand on the back of Crawford's neck. 'Is he here?'

'... Yes.' The American wipes his glasses then puts them back on again. He sees Schuldich. 'He's here.'

With that, he turns and starts to leave.

'Crawford, where're you going?' Schuldich and Nagi call out at the same time.

'What's the point of staying at a graveyard?' Crawford shrugs, smiling wickedly before he can help it. 'Schuldich, you said you'd be my guide in Berlin. Let's go.'

'Yeah, let's go.' Schuldich laughs, takes his flowers from Nagi then catches up with Crawford. He will always follow this man, even if this is a blind devotion, he knew he would ever since Brad Crawford said _come with me_. 'Hey, can I just call you Brad from now on?'

'I never said you couldn't.'

'Cool! Brad, I think you should say something to Farfie and Nags. They look kind of lost.'

'Aren't you a telepath? Can't you tell them?'

'I still haven't figured out how to do it in this state.'

Sighing, Crawford obliges and tells Nagi and Farfarello that Schuldich wants to take them on a tour around Berlin. Finally understanding what has happened, the two young men quickly exit the graveyard with Brad Crawford and their invisible friend.

On the grounds of Berlin, with the most important people in his existence beside him, Schuldich believes he has died a happy man.

[end]

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